Becoming Human
by soiheard
Summary: Picks up where series one left off. A werewolf, a vampire and a ghost continue to co-exist, their lives becoming more and more intertwined...
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: **Hi everyone. :) I'm relatively new to Being Human and thought I'd see what I could do with the storylines before series two comes around. I found the characterisation quite difficult at first, but I did begin to establish their 'voices' after a while; let me know if you think I did OK. Thanks for reading.

* * *

Mitchell sighed and flicked on the kitchen light. "I know sleep isn't really _your thing_, Annie, but you could at least try to be considerate."

Annie's arm paused mid-air. A stack of plates clattered noisily back onto the bench top. "I'm practicing."

"You told us that you blew – what was it, _eight? _– vampires out of your way at the hospital. I didn't think cutlery would pose much of a threat after that."

"It's all about _precision_," she insisted, squinting at a scatter of spoons laid out by the sink. "It's something to work at."

"Fair enough." Mitchell took a tentative few steps towards the kitchen table, wary of any airborne frying pans. "_Precisely_ put the kettle on, then."

Annie rolled her eyes and, with a very pointed stride, she switched the kettle on manually. "There."

"But that water's been in there for _days_ –"

"—serves you right for interrupting my time of _quiet contemplation_."

Mitchell's gaze landed on a shabby self-help book lying open on the table. He groaned. "Please say you haven't been reading that again."

"It's therapeutic."

"It's ridiculous." He swiped up the book before she could grab it or – more likely – propel it through the air. He thumbed disapprovingly through the first few pages. "Tell me... is there a chapter on poltergeists?"

The book was tugged from his hands by an invisible force and within seconds Annie had tucked it tidily behind the breadbin. "I'm not a poltergeist," she said indignantly, burying her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. "That's stereotyping. How would you feel like if I called you a... a..."

Mitchell's eyebrows arched expectantly.

Annie frowned. "...alright, well, there's not really anything else you can be called. But still." The kettle clicked off and she gladly poured a very murky cup of tea, grateful for the distraction. "How do you think Nina's doing? And George, of course."

Mitchell accepted the cup of tea and gave a muffled reply as he took a cautious sip. "Probably wide awake after all that 'quiet contemplation you've been doing."

Annie's brow furrowed. "Mitchell."

"OK, OK." He swallowed thickly and set down his mug. "To be honest, I don't know."

"I think they're doing alright considering what happened," Annie said sympathetically, taking a seat. "He seems calmer than usual, actually. And Nina doesn't seem too freaked out – I mean, obviously she _is_, she must be –"

"—Annie." Mitchell's face had darkened. He had started to stir his tea needlessly. "When Nina ran in and George – well, the _werewolf _– pushed her aside..." He looked up from the mug's grainy contents. "She had a scratch, Annie. I was holding her up and I _felt _it."

Annie stared back blankly. "I'm sure she could've treated it herself. She's a nurse, isn't she? It mustn't have been anything major – she was fine afterwards, it's probably nothing to worry about."

"_Annie_." Mitchell had leaned slightly further across the table and there was a new urgency in his lowered voice. He spoke very slowly. "All it took for George to get infected was a scratch."

Annie looked away very suddenly. Her eyes seemed to be searching the kitchen for a distraction – Mitchell was sure he saw her glance pleadingly at the kettle for a moment, as if begging it to boil itself and provide some sort of interruption.

Mitchell clicked his tongue in frustration. Finally, she spoke. "Do you think that's enough? A scratch?"

He got up and carelessly washed out his half-empty mug in the sink, finally replacing it on the mug tree with unnecessary force. "It's _plenty_."

"But George would never forgive himself. It would kill him –"

"I know."

"And... and they'd never be able to be normal, like he wanted –"

"I _know_."

Their voices had been steadily escalating. Mitchell was hunched over the kitchen sink, unmoving even when Annie came to stand behind him.

"How are we going to tell him?" Annie's voice had become a whisper. She cleared her throat. "We _are_ going to tell him, aren't we?"

"I don't know." Mitchell straightened, his eyes narrowing against the amber street light filtering in through the window. "No," he said decisively. "We're not."

"Mitchell, we have to!" Her voice shook into an odd sort of laugh, as if this conclusion was obvious and he was being deliberately contrary.

"We have to tell _Nina_." Mitchell conceded. "But she's a smart girl. She's probably figured it out. It's up to her to tell George."

Annie scoffed. "Oh, that's fair. 'You're a werewolf now, by the way. Feel free to tell your highly sensitive boyfriend all on your own.'" Her hands, clenched into fists, came to rest on her hips. "I think she'll have enough on her plate, never mind breaking the news to George."

"She doesn't have to tell him," Mitchell interjected, trying to be casual. "They can go on as normal, at least until the next full moon –"

"They can't start a relationship _lying_ to each other."

Mitchell's lips curled into a very bittersweet smile. "Come on, Annie. Our relationships – people like us... we're never going to have relationships based on honesty, are we?"

Annie glared fiercely. "Fine." She snapped, the kitchen chairs overturning as she swept past. "I think you're wrong, though, Mitchell," she continued, her voice becoming ragged. She turned to face him in the kitchen doorway. "I think you know you're wrong, too. I think you know you're just afraid of hurting him."

Mitchell bit his tongue as Annie stormed away upstairs. "So you're finished _contemplating, _then?" he yelled after her.

The light bulb above him fused and exploded.

He had his answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **I read the first chapter back and didn't think I got their voices quite right – please don't hesitate to warn me if they slip out of character. I'm so glad the lovely people who reviewed enjoyed it, and I hope I can match it with this chapter. I'm getting vague ideas about which way the story's going, so I'm going to try and get at least three or so more chapters out before Series Two starts on Sunday (excitement!). I don't think it'll extend much further than that, because I find it difficult to write against canon.

But please, even if you're just dropping by, let me know what you think. ~soiheard

**Chapter 2**

"Not the bulb, Annie!" George groaned, carefully toeing the shattered remains of the kitchen light across the lino. "Not the bloody light bulb! Am I going to have to replace that now, too? Along with all the plates and mugs you wrecked last night –?"

Mitchell looked up pointedly from his cornflakes. "See! I _told_ you were making a racket."

Annie ignored him and continued to stare guiltily at the tiny shards of glass by George's foot.

"—and you _know_ I've lost my IKEA discount card, too!" George sighed and begrudgingly poured himself a cup of tea, mumbling to himself all the while. "Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable."

Annie snapped out of her reverie. "It was his fault," she said, sifting through the cupboards for a dustpan to clean up the debris. "He was winding me up."

Mitchell set down his spoon and raised his eyebrows warningly. "Annie..."

"No. I'm fed up." She began to sweep up so aggressively that she ended up scattering the glass further. "Dishing out advice as if everyone should follow by your _sterling_ example."

George glanced between the two.

"Annie, are we really doing this? Come on." Mitchell shook his head, smiling with such arrogant amusement that it only riled her further.

"Yes, we are." She turned on her heel to face George and took a deep breath. "George. Take a seat." She stood with her hands on her hips, prompting him towards the kitchen table with a tilt of her head.

"The other night," Annie began, her voice taking on the grave tone one would expect from a ghost, "when Nina ran in while you were changing –"

"—when?" George interrupted, shaking his head as if trying to clear the early morning fog. "She ran in?"

"It was when he had changed completely," Mitchell contributed reluctantly, glancing at Annie with contempt. "That was when she ran in. He won't remember."

Annie seemed to sag slightly in her chair. Her expression instantly pinched with regret. "Oh. Yeah... I remember now."

"I don't." George was on edge now. His hands were fidgeting impatiently on the tabletop. "What was it? Did I say something to her? I didn't... I didn't break up with her properly, did I?"

"No." Mitchell and Annie spoke both at once. He wafted his hand with an irate, "Go for it."

Annie swallowed thickly. "Nina got a scratch when she was in there, George."

George sat back in his chair and lifted his mug to his lips. "I know."

She shook her head. "You know?"

"Yeah."

He smiled weakly, glanced from one startled face to the other, and took a sip.

"So... so she told you, then?" Annie asked, eyeing Mitchell out of the corner of her eye. She breathed a sigh of relief. "I just didn't think you'd be so..."

"...calm?" He shrugged. "Yes, well..."

"Well what?" Mitchell said, genuinely concerned by the change in his attitude. "You're not horrified?"

"No." George replied, slightly irritated. "Would you _like_ me to be?"

"Of course not, it's just..." Annie blinked. "We're just not used to you being like this."

"Things happen." He said simply. His voice had suddenly become very hollow, but he disguised it quickly with a long slurp of tea.

"OK then." Mitchell rose uncertainly from the table, followed shortly by Annie. "We'll leave you be, then."

Without any particular effort George could hear clearly as Mitchell and Annie exchanged whispers in the living room. He heard the fizzing of white noise; the television had been turned on. He heard the creak of coiling springs; they had sat down on the sofa.

George finished his tea and began to prepare breakfast. As an egg fried in the pan, he felt that betraying dryness in his throat and felt the skin around his eyes begin to crinkle of its own accord. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up and out into what looked like a wince of pain until soundlessly, almost invisibly, a tear wound down his cheek.

The choke of a single sob couldn't be heard over the spitting of the oil in the frying pan. George's jaw tightened and he repeated to himself the one thing that had kept him sane ever since Nina had told him.

He blamed it on coincidence, accidents, _fate_.

Things happen.


End file.
